


Taking Logs from the Pyre

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Human Sacrifice, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: He never meant for this to be his legacy.





	Taking Logs from the Pyre

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.
> 
> This was written for teaearlgrayhot, who wanted Finwe and sons, fix-it, and "I was disappointed with my eulogy."

Finwe had seen a lot of tapestries in his time wandering the endless halls of Mandos. None that had not shown his family’s deaths had struck him quite as hard as this one.

It showed a great boat that had been beached with great logs stacked up around it. Fire was licking through the wood, presumably for the purpose of burning the corpse laid out in grave state upon the boat.

A woman dressed all in white was throwing herself into the flames.

There was a crowd gathered around them, but no hand was raised to stop her. 

He knew no one in the tapestry - they were Men, he presumed, and he knew nothing of their ways, if this was common or abhorred or if he had misunderstood it entirely.

But looking at it, all he could see was the ships beached at Losgar and set alight, the balrogs blazing in the darkness, dragon fire spilling out over the plains … 

And his children and grandchildren, one by one, metaphorically and - not so metaphorically, throwing themselves into the flames.

He was sure someone had given a speech or sung a lament upon his death, but this was his true eulogy, his everlasting legacy, and it was nothing he had ever wanted.

He had thought of death when Miriel passed and refused to return. He had thought: _What if someday the long years of grief become too much, and I too go and refuse to return?_

He had already seen Feanaro’s eulogy to his mother: A lifelong fight for her memory, for her preferences, for her name. He had seen the fire that had burned his son up from the inside no matter what he tried, his firstborn’s youth sacrificed to grief, and he had thought, _Let my passing bring anything but that. Let there be no sacrifices in my name._

He had never told anyone that. It had seemed morbid. What was going to happen to him?

It might not have made a difference even if he had told someone that. Maybe they still would have marched, one by one, to throw themselves into the flames.

“If you could change it, would you?” Miriel asked, and her voice was only a whisper even now but no less startling for it.

He turned and saw her standing there, a bundle of fresh woven tapestries in her arms explaining her presence in these ghostly halls that she had at last, too late, forsaken.

It was an unkind thing to think her too late. Not after all his faults.

“Of course I would,” he said automatically, but reason reasserted itself. “But even now, looking back, I’m not sure how,” he admitted.

He had gone wrong somewhere. That was very obvious. But there was no single moment he could look at and go, _There. If I had said that - if I had done that - if I had punished this more harshly - more gently - explained more - hidden more - waited longer - waited less - _

He would do it differently if he got the chance, certainly. But better?

He wasn’t sure of that at all.

“It’s a hard thing to reweave the past,” she agreed, looking past him, eyes distant. “But it can be done.” Her fingers smoothed out the great black tapestry in her arms, and Finwe startled a little, taking a closer look. It looked - it almost looked like -

“If you wish it,” she said, voice wistful now. “If you think you can weave us a better pattern for the children’s sake.”

Suddenly this was all looking a great deal less hypothetical. 

“Do the Valar know?” he asked, barely knowing what he was saying. 

Miriel shrugged. “They will soon enough.”

“Do it,” he said before he could stop and think and plan and act as a king should instead of a father.

She hummed a high, clear note, and the threads swarmed from her arms and up the tapestry he had stared at. They wove themselves in, overwriting the old pattern, and he could just make out stars and dark shapes looming beneath them before -

The world went from the solemn grey of the halls to a darkness he had not seen since his death. After precious moments, his eyes adjusted, and he realized he could see the stars.

Was he returned to Cuivienen to live it all out again? How could he possibly be expected to choose between Miriel’s life and Feanaro’s - and not just Feanaro’s but all of his children and little Tyelpe too -

But it wasn’t Cuivienen, he realized.

At Cuivienen, the air had never been this heavy with fear.

And he knew this place, he realized. He knew those voices.

His grandchildren were proclaiming his death before his sons and the Valar even now.

“Not dead,” he announced, stepping forward into the ring of people. “Or, rather, not dead anymore. I have been returned.”

All true, technically.

Even in the dim light, he could see the amazement rising on Maitimo’s face, still unmarred. And Feanaro - It _hurt_ to see the depth of grief on his face, even though it was already transforming to wonder.

“Atar,” he breathed, stepping forward. “Atar, how - “

Nolofinwe for once appeared to be in perfect agreement with his brother, and Finwe was terribly glad that for once they both stood close enough that he could embrace both at once without having to choose.

“It will be alright,” he promised, reckless though it was. “I have returned. We can settle the rest later.”

“I did not return you,” Namo announced, apparently having only just now overcome his own surprise. 

“No,” Finwe agreed, still clinging to his sons and wondering where Arafinwe was and how soon he could embrace him too. “Another one of your guests did that - “ And now he had to wonder, was another version of him still in the halls? What would happen when time caught up with him?

But he had other matters to worry about now.

Namely: “But unless you intend to kill me yourself, there seems little to be done about it now,” he told Namo.

Both of his sons stiffened in his arms. His grandchildren swarmed forward, protective rage fueled by whatever they had seen of what was left.

Something else it seemed they could all agree on.

And though he had no intention of saving them from one pyre only to watch them throw themselves on another one, still, it seemed a most auspicious start.


End file.
